


Won't You Make Me Stay?

by for_the_love_of_wolves



Series: One Hundred Ways To Say "I Love You" [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Memories, Pining, There's a phoenix, Young Chris Argent, Young Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24651232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_the_love_of_wolves/pseuds/for_the_love_of_wolves
Summary: Peter thinks his week can't get worse after Scott's pack disrupts his carefully prepared dinner with Chris because of a basilisk haunting the school's sewer pipes. He's wrong. Only two days later, an agigated phoenix tries to burn him and he drags himself home, intending to lick his wounds alone as usual. When Chris turns up at his apartment, he's suprised. (Written for number 88: “I’ll see you later.”)
Relationships: Chris Argent/Peter Hale
Series: One Hundred Ways To Say "I Love You" [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698595
Comments: 4
Kudos: 108





	Won't You Make Me Stay?

Peter was sure the week couldn’t get any worse after he finally managed to have dinner with Christopher Argent, only to be rudely disrupted by McCall's pack. 

He had planned it all through. Every single step. He had bought Christopher’s favourite wine and had spent an entire day baking macarons until they were as perfect as they could get; until the kitchen was a mess and he collapsed on the bed.  
  
He had words prepared. They were sitting in his head the whole time, while he was waiting for the perfect moment.  
  
Peter had been determined to make this work. For once, he’d wanted to throw his pride away, to open up and ask Christopher for another chance. Because … He couldn’t have misread all these hints that the hunter thought about it too, right? 

They have spent months writing ambivalent messages to each other. Christopher texted Peter when he was drunk or couldn’t sleep, Peter texted Christopher when he was lonely. Because he was. No one cared, no one would even think about it - he was sure about that and he didn't expect them to after everything - but there were nights when his wolf simply longed for someone's touch. He didn’t dare to ask for it directly, though. So he stuck to their strange snappy silent communication per SMS and WhatsApp. It was not much but it was not nothing. And sometimes, there was a text, that made his breath hitch and his stomach feel too light. Like the “Feels good to talk to you, you know,” Argent sent him in the middle of the night and didn’t delete. Peter didn’t comment it. He didn't know how. But it was still there, when he scrolled back up later, to stare at the line.  
  
Then, there were the glances at the pack meetings. There were moments when Argent looked at him with distant yet focused eyes, almost like he was remembering what Peter sometimes remembered.  
  
There were hints and they started to get strenuous. So Peter decided to screw it and asked Christopher if he wanted to have dinner. The hunter seemed surprised, but he said okay.  
  
And there they were, on a Saturday evening in Peter’s apartment, sitting at the same table finally, the bottle of wine between them, the flame of a candle reflected in it. And Peter had words prepared. He’d been close to uttering them, when four panting wide-eyed teenage werewolves crashed and ruined the whole dinner, begging them to help them with a basilisk suddenly living in the sewer pipes of their school, without even looking surprised about the scenario in front of them. Ignorant idiots.

Peter spent the rest of the evening with less than pleasant things. He got stuck in a sewer pipe, almost had his arm gnawed off by the basilisk's venomous teeth, and when the beast was finally defeated, he had to shower for an hour until he really couldn’t smell the dirt, blood - and the other things that covered his skin but he didn’t want to even think about - anymore. When he finally dropped on the bed, he felt tired, furious and disappointed. Christopher had disappeared after the fight without a word. They were back at where they were before the dinner.  
  
Peter really thought the week couldn’t get any worse than that.   
  


He was wrong.  
  
  
Only two days after the dinner debacle, he finds himself thrown against a tree by an agitated phoenix twice their size. He would be fascinated by the appearance of such a rare supernatural creature, if the bird wasn’t feral and obviously keen on scratching his eyes out. And on fire, of course. Peter hates fire. The well known smell of smoke and burning wood is already filling the air, making him feel sick to the stomach. He avoids the claws by a hair and watches as Scott tries to stick his claws into the bird’s back, only to have his hands burned, not completely able to suppress a sharp hint of malice at the sight. 

Not for the first time this day, Peter wonders why he stayed in Beacon Hills in the first place after the whole Nogitsune drama, when it became clear that no one would try to kill him again. He could have left. He could have found himself a peaceful silent place in the middle of nowhere. Screw this place, this pack that only talks to him when they are in desperate need of advice and, most of all, screw Christopher Argent, who doesn’t seem to know what he wants. Peter doesn’t need a hunter who acts like nothing has ever happened between them. There are enough men out there. But then, he thinks, if it really was that easy, he wouldn’t be here anymore … 

Stiles looks from the raging screeching phoenix to Peter, his eyes wide. “What do we do?” 

Peter hates to admit it, but he doesn’t really know anything about phoenixes, only that they adore sparkly objects and get reborn when they die, literally rising from their ashes. For the first time in ages, he can only shrug. Stiles’ face falls. It clearly says: _We’re fucked_. 

Miraculously, It’s Argent who saves the day this time. Argent, who comes running with a gun in each of his hands, yelling something about making the phoenix fall asleep. 

“Great! Why don’t you sing a lullaby to it then?” Peter snarls. Argent glares at him and pulls a little bottle out of his jacket. It contains a strange red powder. Not wolfsbane. Argent hands the bottle to Scott. “Sleeping powder from a Joshua tree. You have to get that into its eyes,” he says. Scott nods. He jumps at the phoenix again, but it slaps him away with one wing as if the teenage werewolf was only a fly.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Peter snaps impatiently and rolls his eyes. He has enough of this. He wants to go home. Of course he has to be the one to finish the job. Again. He wordlessly snatches the bottle out of Scott’s blistered hand and opens it, stepping right in front of the screeching firebird. It glares at him with black eyes and threateningly flaps its burning wings. Peter glares right back, baring his fangs. “Come here, you ugly stupid bird,” he growls. The phoenix hisses and lunges at him, claws out. Peter avoids them by a hair again, feeling them scratching his shoulder. He reaches for the bird’s throat, fading out the fact that he’s reaching right into the flames, and holds on, pouring the red powder into the bird’s face while ignoring a searing pain at his side. The phoenix makes a gurgling noise and shakes him off, stumbling backwards. It blinks a few times, screeches and then finally, drops, the flames subsiding until only the grey body of the bird remains. It curls into itself on the charred forest floor and falls asleep. 

Peter huffs. It was about time. He drops the bottle and looks at his burned hands with a frown. That will take some time to heal. He feels strangely detached from it. Like he feels detached from the fact, that he’s bleeding quite strongly from some gashes on his side. 

“You’re alright?” Stiles asks, eyeing the dark spot spreading on Peter’s ruined shirt with a frown. 

“Never been better,” Peter mumbles and turns away. 

Stiles shrugs. “Ooookay then.” 

Peter can’t leave the other werewolves and the smell of smoke fast enough. He feels like Christopher is staring after him. But maybe, that’s just stupid wishful thinking.  
  


* * *

Peter drags himself home and falls right on the bed, too worn out to care about his blood soaked, burnt and shredded clothes. He tries to fade out the smell, but it’s too sharp. Even his hair is singed. The wounds on his side are throbbing and he knows they will start to ache in searing pain soon enough. Maybe, he can sleep through the worst. Without a doubt, his sleep will be haunted by nightmares. Memories, reawoken by the sight of flames and the smell of smoke. But it's fine. He's used to nightmares by now. Is used to awake gasping and retching and to falling asleep after a few hours of writhing.

Someone enters his apartment and Peter notices way too late. It takes one sniff to tell him it’s Christopher - reeking of wolfsbane, gun oil and leather as usual - but he still calls himself a stupid idiot for being so careless. 

“People usually knock before they come in you know,” Peter remarks, opening his eyes reluctantly when heavy steps approach the bed.  
  
Christopher ignores him. He looks down at Peter with an unreadable expression on his face, and it unnerves the werewolf to no end. He’s usually very good at reading people. 

“What do you want?” He asks and forces himself into a sitting position although it hurts, because he feels way too vulnerable and exposed laying on his back.  
  
“You’re hurt,” the hunter says matter of factly.  
  
Peter shrugs. “I’ve been worse. Why do you even ca …” He stops, frowning in confusion when Argent sits on the edge of the bed wordlessly and lifts Peter’s shirt, staring at the wounds hidden underneath it. Peter really wants to shake him off and make a snarky comment. Like, “you should take me out first, Argent”, but the words seem to be stuck in his throat. 

He follows Christopher's eyes down instead and grimaces. The wounds do look awful. They also smell awful. He looks away again.

“They don’t heal,” the hunter says.

“They will. Eventually.” Hopefully … Peter remembers how long it took his body to heal burns the last time, and feels sick again. It doesn’t help that he doesn’t really feel like a part of the pack. The bonds are weak and volatile. On both ends.

Christopher sighs. He reaches into the bag he brought and pulls out a first aid kit.

Peter frowns. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Since I’m sure you won’t go to the hospital with this, I’m going to at least disinfectant and bandage your wounds, before you develop sepsis,” Christopher says dryly.   
  
Peter grits his teeth. “You don’t need to do this to feel better, you know.”  
  
“I want to. Now shut up for once,” the hunter mumbles and goes to work. 

He spreads disinfectant on the wounds without much preamble and Peter hisses at the sting. Christopher arches a brow. “You’re being dramatic like always, aren't you.” His words sound indifferent. And yet … there’s something gentle in his touch. It’s almost too much for Peter to handle. 

It makes a memory come up. One of the memories Talia didn’t take. They were much younger. Much more naive. And for some reason, never apart for long.  
  


_“You could have died you idiot!” Chris looks furious._

_Peter shrugs. “Well, I didn’t.” He actually feels pretty good, even though his blood is colouring the snow red under him and the pain of Chris searching around in his wound with a tweezer is searing. Even though Talia is probably going to be incredibly pissed at him for taking action instead of being what she calls reasonable._

_He enjoyed the dumbfounded looks of the hunters when he jumped right between them, when he freed the werewolf they had hung up. They were slow. When they reacted, the two werewolves were almost gone again. Unfortunately, one of the idiots was fast enough to shoot, and the wolfsbane bullet pierced Peter’s shoulder. He made it to Chris’ house and now they have to hope that Gerard is fast asleep and won’t notice his son is helping out a wounded werewolf._

_Chris shakes his head, his eyes still filled with anger. “Never thought I would meet a wolf with a death wish,” he mumbles and makes a relieved noise, when the bullet finally drops into the snow.  
  
“Never thought I would meet a hunter who can’t hunt shit and helps a werewolf instead of ending him,” Peter retorts gleefully.  
  
Chris’ breath hitches. Peter knows he stroke a nerve. Knows Chris’ father is always taunting his son. Chris himself told him so. Chris grabs Peter by the collar of his shirt frmly and pulls him close, ignoring the wolf’s pained noise. “One day,” Chris hisses, “I’m going to kill you for your mouth, wolf.”  
  
“Oh really, _ hunter _? Why didn’t you just let me die here in the snow instead? I think you’re more fond of me and my mouth than you want to admit,” Peter says, grinning into Chris’ stony face._

_Chris stares at him, not saying anything. Finally, he sighs and shakes his head, letting go off Peter. He hands the wolf a towel. “Here. Press this on the wound. It’s going to suck the poison out. I have something for the pain inside. I’ll get it.”  
  
Peter frowns in surprise. He puts the towel - soaked in something sweet-smelling - on the wound and grimaces when the pain intensifies. “Don’t bother. The wound is going to heal soon enough," he mumbles.  
  
“But it still hurts, doesn’t it?” Chris queries, and for a moment, there’s care in his eyes.  
  
“It does,” Peter admits, avoiding Chris’ eyes. He almost flinches back, when Chris lays a hand on his uninjured shoulder and applies gentle pressure for a moment. It feels … comforting. The touch disappears way too soon and Peter is angry at himself for wanting it back.  
  
“Stay. I’ll be back soon.” Chris disappears in the house, moving almost as quiet as a stalking wolf. Peter looks after him, his mouth dry. _  
  


_Soon after the incident, Peter saves Chris from two feral wolves. They are both bloody and exhausted after the fight. And high on adrenaline. Chris kisses him. There’s nothing gentle in it and Peter kisses him back with just as much ferocity._

_Somehow, they work. Not forever. But for the moment, they do._  
  


_And it was good_ , Peter thinks, slowly coming back to the presence, where a huge wall of baggage stands between them. It was good while it lasted, there’s no denying it. 

“What are you thinking about?” Christopher asks calmly, finishing with bandaging the wounds. 

Peter shakes his head. “You don’t want to know.” 

Christopher frowns but doesn’t ask. Peter expects the hunter to leave. As sudden as he came. But the hunter remains sitting for a moment, his eyes distant. When he talks again, there’s just a hint of hesitancy in his voice. “You know … When you recovered, we could try to have that dinner again. Since it ended so abruptly.”

Peter thinks his breath actually hitches. “It would be my pleasure,” he hurries to say and forbids his mouth to add something that would destroy the moment. He kind of has a talent for that …  
  
Christopher nods and gets up. He hesitates, and then says, “Goodnight, Peter. I'll see you later.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. Heavy steps move away and soon, the door closes. Peter is alone. He lays back into the pillows and stares at the ceiling, thinking. Wondering.   
  
Maybe, he’s going to stay in this godforsaken town for a while longer after all. Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> These short stories are written for prompts on this list: [One Hundred Ways To Say "I Love You"](https://phantasticlizzy.tumblr.com/post/169119615088/one-hundred-ways-to-say-i-love-you)
> 
> You can prompt me, just send me the number and a ship on tumblr: [Tumblr](https://for-the-love-of-wolves.tumblr.com/)  
> :)


End file.
